


Tea and Sympathy

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is having a bad day. Tea and sympathy help. So does a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sirona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/gifts).



> Written for sirona who is having a bad day ... or who had one yesterday.

Clint's bad day starts when his coffeemaker literally blows a gasket and releases a minor flood of brewed coffee and grounds on his counter, down the cabinets and to the floor ... and on top of his feet. His brain doesn't quite process the fact that the water isn't hot enough to hurt him, but his reflexes take over and he gives an awkward hop away from the counter and twists his ankle. Not the way he had planned his day to start out.

The crowning indignity to his morning is the failure of the boiler in his "quaint" apartment. He has to settle for a quick splash in the cold water that leaves him chilled to the bone. Living in the mansion is starting to look appealing. Stark would never put up with an ancient and inefficient boiler. He decides to pack a duffel for the night, just in case.

Outside, it's a rainy, raw day. He's still shivering when he gets to the mansion. His plan is to go to the range to shoot, get coffee, find Natasha to spar with, and take the longest, hottest shower in the history of the world. 

"Agent Barton," Nick Fury's voice comes from on high just as he nocks his first arrow. "The team is assembling in the weapons room. I expect you here before I finish this sentence if not sooner." Clint is out the door and loping down the corridor before the final echo of Fury's voice fades away behind him.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

He spends the afternoon on a rooftop, in a freezing drizzle, watching for some low-level minion of Loki's to wreak havoc on the streets. In short, the jerk doesn't show until after 4pm. By then, Clint's fingers are numb and containing his shivering is more difficult than shooting the guy with tranquilizers. He doesn't quite hit the jerk in the thigh -- he shoots him in the buttocks, and isn't completely unhappy that his aim was off. He waits for Natasha and Hogan to finish the job and load their prize into a secure van before he finally climbs down from the roof. 

He gets into the back seat of the black Suburban. Natasha raises a brow. "You're wet."  


"I've b-been s-sitting in the r-rain f-for m-most --" His shivering stammer is interrupted by a cough. "Nice of you to n-n-notice."

"Here." She hands a gym towel to him. He mops his face, tries to dry his throat and arms. "G-got h-heat?"

Natasha sighs and gives him a pitying look. She turns the blower up a notch. Clint holds his stiff fingers in the stream of marginally warm air and thinks dirty thoughts about Tony Stark's heated leather seats in his personal vehicles. 

He is walking down the hall towards Coulson's office out of force of habit more than anything else. His head is pounding from lack of caffeine and cold. He should head towards the shower room. He should try to eat. He should try to get _warm_. Why he is heading towards Coulson's office, he isn't sure ... at all. It's just the possibility of warmth, of Coulson's company.

He pauses on the threshold, gripping the moulding. Coulson is sitting at his desk. His tie is improbably loosened, his hair mussed, as if the light strands had decided to rebel against his usual buttoned-downed, perfectly groomed appearance. He looks up, squinting a little against the light from his desk lamp. He looks tired, Clint thinks. "Mission was successful," he rasps.

"You're dripping on my floor," Coulson says mildly. "And your lips are blue."

"I'm cold." Clint tries not to sound like he's whining. 

"So you came here? I admit I'm touched by your devotion to duty, Agent Barton, but I think a hot shower and dry clothes would have been more efficacious."

"My brain is too cold to even begin to decipher that one," Clint shivers. 

Coulson gets up from his desk. He crosses over to Clint and sets warm hands on his shoulders, turning him towards the elevator leading to the lower level exercise and shower rooms. "Take a hot shower, Barton, then come see me. You're in no shape to give a report right now."

Clint doesn't want Coulson to move his hands. Those warm palms on his chilled body feel like life itself. "Yes, sir," he says reluctantly. The elevator doors open and he steps in, Phil guiding him to be sure he follows orders. 

He showers, standing under the hot, strong flow from the shower head until his skin tingles. He's about one-third to warm. At least he isn't shaking anymore. He puts on jeans and a dark blue turtleneck sweater, hoping they will keep in the heat. 

He goes up to Coulson's office, knocks on the frame and enters. The office smells like cinnamon and bergamot, warm and enticing. Phil is standing by the small counter where he keeps an electric kettle and a teapot. He turns when he hears Clint. He holds out a mug; steaming and fragrant. 

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Sugar," Clint says. He doesn't always use sugar, but today he needs the carbs. He takes the mug from Phil, wrapping his fingers around the comforting thick china mug. He breathes in the bergamot-scented tea. Phil sets a plate with a cinnamon scone on it on his desk where Clint usually sits, and joins him. 

Coulson waits, making a few notes on papers while Clint sips at his tea and demolishes the buttered scone in three bites. When he's finished, he sits back, stretches out and clasps his hands over his middle.

Phil's eyes brighten."Better?" He asks.

"Getting there." Clint smiles. "I guess my lips aren't blue any more."

"No." Phil's voice sounds a bit rough. "You have -- " He leans forward and brushes sugar off the corner of Clint's mouth with the pad of his thumb. Clint catches his breath. If he moves his lips, they will touch Phil's thumb like a kiss -- but he doesn't. He stills and waits and wonders if Coulson can feel his pulse. It would betray him. 

"Thanks. The last thing I need is for Natasha to start calling me Sugar Lips." 

Coulson laughs at that; a surprising sound that warms Clint to his heart. "Warm enough?"

"Better. Nearly. Getting there."

Coulson looks at him closely. "Don't go home tonight," he says. "You don't have heat." 

"How do you know that?" Sometimes he thinks Phil really _is_ a ninja. 

"It was on the news. The entire block is without heat due to a suspected gas leak."

"Okay. I'm sure there's a cot somewhere around here."

"My place," Phil says suddenly. "Come home with me."

Clint thinks this is either the most reckless or stupid thing he has ever done. He's got nothing against reckless, and he knows he's not stupid and neither is Phil. So, reckless. He can deal with that. 

Meanwhile, he has Coulson's tea and sympathy. He nods. "As long as you keep the heat on."

"I think I can guarantee that," Coulson says. He holds out his hand. Clint takes it. 

"Why now?" he asks.

"Because you came here first, blue lips and all. Sometimes, Barton, you are an idiot." He leans forward and gently kisses him. "Sugar lips." 

Clint shivers, but this time not from cold. Coulson's brow is raised, his eyes bright. Clint slides his hand to the small of Phil's back. Phil sidesteps his touch, and with a smooth motion snatches up his suit coat and his briefcase. 

Warmth blossoms in Clint's middle, and the chill of the day vanishes like fog in sunlight.

**The End**


End file.
